


The Voice

by WanderingAlice



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Cecil is Carlos' Imaginary Friend, Cecil is Inhuman, Child Abuse, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-26
Updated: 2016-11-26
Packaged: 2018-09-02 06:26:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8654221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WanderingAlice/pseuds/WanderingAlice
Summary: The Voice has been with him since before he can remember. It - he - protects Carlos from his worst fears, until the day that Carlos doesn't need him anymore.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first work in this fandom, but I binge-listened to every episode on my way to work the past couple weeks, and am making my way through the book now. It might be consuming my soul. And so I had to write for it, because Cecil is a giant adorable dork, and he and Carlos are the best. 
> 
> Please let me know what you think. I love comments and criticism. If you could, I'm especially worried about my characterization of Cecil and Carlos, so if you have any advice I'd appreciate it. 
> 
> (And if you're reading this because you like my other work and haven't heard Welcome to Night Vale, please please go listen to it. You won't regret it, I promise. Also, Holy Fuck you are amazing, and I don't know what I did to deserve such amazing readers!)

The Voice has been with him since before he can remember. Comforting, calming, protecting him. He’s not bragging, but nobody messes with Carlos, even though he’d be the perfect target for bullies- small, soft, with few friends and a strange and all-consuming interest in science. Not that _he_ has ever done anything, but people who pick on him end up having… accidents. Like the kid in the second grade that tried to give him a swirly in the bathroom, who later ended up falling and breaking his arm in the sink. When anyone tries to start something, the Voice growls, low in its nonexistent throat, and whispers angry and warning phrases until the bullies back up and go away. Carlos doesn't know if they actually hear the Voice, or just feel the menace it exudes, but he doesn’t want to check. He’s afraid what people would do, if they knew he could hear the Voice.

He isn’t mad, he knows that much. Madness voices tell people to do things, or that they’re gods, or any number of unnatural things. The Voice isn’t like that. The Voice just… loves Carlos. Loves him so completely, he’s never felt alone even once in his life. The Voice is always there. It likes to call him “Perfect Carlos” or “Beautiful Carlos”. It tells him about the world, not the world he studies in school with its laws of physics, but the supernatural world. The world where glowing clouds rain dead animals and a civilization of tiny warlike people lives under the bowling alley. It’s a fantastic world, and Carlos is determined to prove it exists, no matter how often people tell him it’s impossible.

 

“What’s your name?” He asks the Voice sometime when he’s three, because everyone has a name, he’s old enough to know _that_ much.

“I… don’t know,” the Voice tells him, sounding slightly concerned, its deep voice rising slightly. “I don’t think I have one.”

“Oh,” Carlos says, and thinks about if for a minute. “Can I give you one?”

“I would very much like that, my Carlos,” the Voice says, and Carlos shivers. He loves it when the Voice says his name like that, calls him _my Carlos_. It makes him feel special, loved.

“Cecil,” he says at once, because it’s a name he heard the other day, and he likes it. “Cecil Gershwin Palmer.” Gershwin is the middle name of his favorite cartoon character, and Palmer is the last name of his pre-school teacher, a woman who gives the absolute best hugs.

“Cecil Gershwin Palmer…” the voice says, rolling it over in its… mouth? Can a disembodied voice have a mouth? “Cecil…” it’s- _his_ , because it’s a man’s voice, and its are dead things- his voice deepens, falling into a register Carlos isn’t sure humans can actually make. “I love it. Thank you, Carlos!”

 

He’s six, before he thinks to ask what the Voice looks like. Cecil goes silent for a long minute, enough to make Carlos worry he’d offended him.

“What do you think I look like?” he finally responds, and his voice holds only curiosity.

“You have three eyes,” Carlos says, without really knowing why. “The bottom two are blue, but the one on your forehead is purple. Your hair is silver, you keep it short or else it gets in your upper eye. You’re not really tall, but not short either. You’re… unique.”

“Am I human?” Cecil asks, and Carlos nods.

“Yeah, but you have, like, wings. Only they’re tattoos most of the time, until you want to use them. And you can wrap them around people, to protect them. You wrap them around me when Momma gets angry.” He shivers in fear at the thought. His momma gets angry a lot.

“I do,” the Voice tells him. “And I will _never_ let her hurt you, I promise.”

Carlos believes him. And it’s not just because he believes everything Cecil says. Because the last time Momma had had too much to drink, she’d gone to hit Carlos but instead had stumbled back and sank onto the couch. She’d gone to sleep then, letting Carlos run upstairs to his room and call his Papa. Papa had come over and taken him to his house for the night, where he got to see his Tia and have her hold him tight and press kisses to his hair until he fell asleep in her arms, the Voice whispering a story to him as he slept.

 

As he gets older, the Voice starts telling him about a town out in the desert. Carlos names the town Night Vale, because that sounds cool. In this one town, all of those impossible things Cecil had told him about could be true. It sounds wonderful, and Carlos eagerly listens, even as he learns more about the laws of physics and why this place can’t be possible. The Voice can’t be possible either, unless he accepts he’s insane.

“Are you real?” he asks once, more out of curiosity to see what the Voice would say than any worry that he’s not.

“Reality is subjective,” Cecil says.

He knows he’s not crazy though, crazy people don’t worry about things like what is real and what is not. He has two conflicting data sets, but he knows, if he just tries hard enough, learns the right formula, knows the right law, he’ll find that thing that lets both Night Vale and the every-day world  be true. So he throws himself into his science lessons. And those lessons are fascinating, as much as Cecil’s stories. He finds himself eagerly telling Cecil all about science after school, listening to Cecil’s indulgent chuckles and happy hums as he talks.

“I love that you love science,” Cecil tells him, and he’s grateful that the Voice isn’t mad, Carlos had worried he would be upset he’d found something else he loved as much as Cecil.

“I love you too,” Carlos says, and he means it.

“I know.” The Voice sounds sad, wistful, and Carlos doesn’t really know why. “And I, you.”

 

By the time Carlos is thirteen, his momma is drunk most of the time. Drunk, and angry. Cecil protects him, but Carlos knows that however much Cecil tries, he won’t be able to protect him forever. He tries to stay with his papa, but there’s a court order he doesn’t really understand, and while Papa tries to fight the court, Carlos has to stay with his momma. It’s not fair, but at least Cecil is there.

It all comes to a head on an otherwise normal day in the middle of winter. Carlos comes home from school and is greeted with a slap that rocks his head back on his neck.

“You’re late!” Momma screeches, swinging her hand back to hit him again. “You fucking moron, you can’t even be on time for dinner.”

Carlos ducks, darting out of the room. There’s a collection of bottles on the table, and the whole house positively reeks of alcohol. He can hear her chasing him up the stairs, screaming obscenities. Carlos grabs the phone from its cradle in the hall and dials 9-1-1, but can only pant ‘Please, help,” into the receiver before his momma smashes the phone from his hands. He shouts and runs again. She corners him in his bedroom and he presses himself to the wall, trying to make himself as small as possible. Cecil is suddenly there, growling in his ears, telling him to duck. He falls to the floor as a bottle smashes into the wall above his head, rolling at Cecil’s command and coming up in the middle of the room. She is still between him and the door. Her eyes are wild, bloodshot.

“Cecil…” he begs, not knowing how the Voice will protect him from this.

“You are safe, my Carlos,” Cecil says, voice as deep and menacing as he has ever heard it. Momma stops, eyes going wide.

“Who’s there?” she demands, speaking to the air behind Carlos. “Get out of my house!”

“Stay where you are!” the Voice orders, and Carlos glances at the mirror on his closet door. He thinks he can see three glowing eyes just behind his head, though he will later attribute them to fear. Now, though, he watches as a dark form coalesces behind him, wings spread wide. They flair and he can feel them wrap tight around him like a protective blanket, warm and comforting. He thinks he feels feathers brush against his cheek.

“Close your eyes, my dear Carlos,” he hears the Voice whisper, and he does. The room goes red against his eyelids as if suddenly brightly lit, and he hears his momma scream. Then, the light fades and all he can hear is his own heavy breathing. The wings gently unfurl around him, and he feels soft lips press a kiss to the back of his head.

“Cecil?” he asks, feeling a cold absence where the wings had been.

“You are safe now,” Cecil tells him. “Don’t open your eyes just yet. But you are safe.”

Carlos sobs in relief, sinking down to huddle in the corner between his bed and the wall. Cecil whispers gentle words, a litany of ‘Beautiful Carlos, Perfect Carlos, my scientist, my lovely boy.” It calms him, and in the silence he can hear sirens coming closer.

They find him still curled against the wall, eyes still squeezed shut. His hands are bloody and laced with small cuts from a blow he doesn’t remember blocking. There’s a cut still bleeding sluggishly on his temple, and an already purpling hand print across his face. They don’t let him see his momma. They tell him she is very sick, and they will send her to a doctor to get better. Papa comes to the hospital, pale and shaking, and holds him close. When Carlos asks if he can stay with him, his papa gives a strangled laugh, and tells him he’ll never have to go back to his mother again.

That night, settled into his room at Papa’s house, Cecil’s voice comes to him again.

“You’re safe now,” Cecil says sadly. “You won’t need me anymore, my perfect Carlos.”

“I don’t understand,” Carlos tells him, voice quiet so as not to disturb his family sleeping in rooms around his.

“You don’t need me,” the Voice is soft, regretful. “And I cannot stay where I am not needed.”

“No!” Carlos tells him vehemently, and then freezes, waiting for Papa to wake up. When nothing happens he relaxes, and continues in a whisper. “I still need you. Who will I talk to about science?”

“Your half-sisters like science,” Cecil says. “And you can tell your dreams to your Tia. Your Papa will help you with your homework, and your step-mother will tell you stories before you go to sleep.”

“But what about you?” Carlos asks. “I’ll miss you.”

“I know, and I’m sorry,” the Voice tells him. “But there are rules about these things.” He feels a ghostly hand caress his cheek. “And you will not miss me for long, you’ll forget soon that I was ever here.”

“I don’t want to forget you!” he sounds whiny, needy, and berates himself for it. He’s thirteen, too old for that sort of thing.

“I’m sorry,” Cecil says again, his voice growing distant and small.

“Will I see you again?” Carlos asks, desperate.

“I don’t know,” Cecil says. And then he is gone.

When Carlos wakes, he finds a black feather resting on his pillow. It’s strange, shot through with silver lines and glowing slightly in the morning sun. There are dried tears on his cheeks, but he can’t quite remember why he was crying. He tucks the feather behind his ear, and goes down to breakfast where his family is happily arguing over pancakes. Later, he will hang the feather from a chain to wear around his neck. He will hold it in times of stress, fingers rubbing the soft sides during big exams, or when he asks his first boyfriend out on a date, and it will comfort him, though he does not know why.

 

**Twenty Years Later**

 

Carlos is thirty-three when he moves to Night Vale. His sisters plead with him not to go, but he insists. The grant is _huge_ , and he’s never had his own team of scientists before. Plus, the rumors coming out of that desert are so fantastical as to deny expectation. And, there’s one other thing. One he’ll deny to anyone who asks. He feels a… a _pull_ towards the town that he cannot explain. When he tries, it feels like a memory that you know is there, but can’t quite seem to remember. The night before he leaves, he dreams of three bright eyes and the brush of soft feathers against his skin. When he picks up his feather necklace that morning, for a moment he swears that it’s warm.

Night Vale is fascinating. It defies all the laws of physics. Time doesn’t work. There’s secret agents that watch everyone’s every move. The shadowy hooded figures emit radiation that sends his Geiger counters screaming. There are earthquakes that nobody feels. Lights hang in the sky above the Arby’s. And there’s a voice on the radio that claims to love him. Nothing makes sense, and they’re all pretty sure the whole place can’t exist. Carlos loves it.

It’s that voice on the radio that gets him the most. Like he’s heard it before. Like he should know it as completely as he knows his own thoughts. He supposes it’s some sort of weird Night Vale thing, and puts it high on his list of things to study. The first chance he gets, he takes his Geiger counter to the radio station to study it, and, hopefully, meet the man behind the voice.

“And now, the weather,” the announcer says, and the ON AIR sign flicks off. The intern leading Carlos around the station grins and opens the door to the broadcasting booth.

“And now,” she says, like she’s trying to go for grandiose and inspiring and only sort of pulling it off, “may I introduce the Voice of Night Vale.”

Inside the booth, a man spins on his chair and turns to look at Carlos. Carlos pauses for a second, because _three eyes_ , before really taking in the rest of the man. He shouldn’t have been surprised. After all, he’s already seen a girl with blue skin and a man covered in what looked like feathers, as well as a being of indeterminate gender with six arms and four legs. On that scale, an extra eye almost doesn’t register.

The Voice of Night Vale is not tall or short, not fat or thin. He has short silver hair, slicked back away from his face- ostensibly to avoid getting it in the large purple eye in the center of his forehead. His two lower eyes are a brilliant blue, and framed by a pair of horn-rimmed glasses. When he smiles, Carlos notices that he has rather too many teeth, and that they all taper to a delicate point. _Carnivore_ , Carlos thinks. And then he notices the man’s truly horrible sense of fashion. He’s wearing what are probably tights in a shade of bright purple under green ripped jeans and a lemon-colored sweater-vest over a pink button down shirt. He’s also wearing a tie with a large dragon on it, and Carlos thinks the dragon might actually be moving. The whole ensemble is overwhelming, and to avoid looking at it, Carlos directs his gaze back up to the announcer’s face. He’s watching Carlos expectantly, waiting for something.

Carlos blushes. What an idiot he is. “Hi, I’m uh, that is, I’m Carlos. The scientist. Carlos the scientist,” he says, aware that he should have introduced himself instead of staring.

The Voice of Night Vale stands and offers Carlos a firm handshake. “Cecil Gershwin Palmer,” he says, watching Carlos’ face. The name rings a bell, like a name you heard a long time ago, that you know you _should_ know but can’t quite place.

“Nice to meet you,” Carlos tells him, and the man’s face falls slightly. The expression is gone so quickly Carlos might have imagined it, and then Cecil Palmer is squeezing his hand and letting go.

“Likewise,” the man says, meeting Carlos’ eyes with his lower two, while the third gives him an once-over that leaves him feeling more than a little exposed despite being fully dressed. “Oh,” Cecil gasps, “your hair is just as perfect as I thought it was when I saw you come into town.”

“Um, yes, well,” Carlos is uncomfortable with the praise, especially over something as ordinary as his hair, which has started graying at the temples far too early and is desperately in need of a cut he just hasn’t found the time to go get. “I don’t mean to interrupt your show. If you don’t mind, I could just take some readings and then get out of your ha- er, way. Get out of your way.” He knows he’s blushing, and can’t quite figure out what’s wrong with him. He hasn’t been this tongue tied since he asked his first boyfriend to homecoming.

Cecil sort of deflates, but he nods, which is all Carlos needed. “Yes, please, go ahead.”

The readings are… terrifying. The microphone in particular seems to be emitting very dangerous levels of radiation, and Carlos tells Cecil that they should all leave. Evacuate the station, because it’s more radioactive than Chernobyl at the time of the meltdown. Cecil just shrugs, makes reassuring noises, and goes back to his show once the weather is done. Carlos leaves, feeling like he’s missing more than just the reason why the people in the station can exist without the flesh literally melting off their bones.

 

Over the course of the next year, Carlos finds himself drawn inexplicably to the radio host. Every time, Cecil looks at him as if waiting for something, but Carlos hasn’t yet figured out what it is. He keeps having these dreams of Cecil’s voice, speaking as if to a younger him. It’s strange, because the voice in his dreams is just as filled with obvious affection, but it’s different from the way Cecil speaks to him now. The voice in his dreams is innocent, loving in the manner of a child. The Voice of Night Vale is clear in his intent, speaking to Carlos with the adult sort of love in his words. Carlos doesn’t know what to make of it.

The thing is, he likes Cecil. He likes him a lot. It feels like he _knows_ the radio host, almost better than he knows himself. And… he wants what Cecil seems to want. He just… doesn’t know how to go about it. Talking to Cecil about anything other than science is difficult. Science is safe, he knows what he means when he talks about science. Trying to say anything else, he ends up tongue tied and stuttering. And the nagging feeling that he should be able to remember Cecil from somewhere else just makes everything worse.

He tries to talk about it once, when he runs into the man at Big Rico’s. Cecil’s face lights up when he sees Carlos, like always. It sends a warm shiver down Carlos’ spine and he can’t help but smile in return.

“Carlos!” Cecil cries, the unspoken ‘perfect’ evident in his voice. “Would you like to join me for some wheat-free pizza? Rico’s been experimenting with a corn-based crust, and the results are certainly edible.”

Not trusting his voice, Carlos just smiles and nods, sliding into the seat across from Cecil. They eat in silence for a while (the corn-based pizza is indeed edible, though Carlos really misses wheat and wheat by-products), Cecil watching Carlos with his third eye, and Carlos trying to figure out what to say to break the awkward quiet. Eventually, Carlos puts down his mandatory slice of pizza and takes a breath.

“So, uh, have you ever… um, been out of Night Vale?” he asks, mentally cursing himself for sounding like an idiot.

“Of course!” Cecil says with a smile. “I went to Europe for a while when I was younger.”

Carlos wants to slap himself. He knew that. He’d been listening to Cecil’s show. He _always_ listens to Cecil’s show. It feels wrong if he misses it. Not that missing it is easy- every radio in the town spontaneously turns itself on when Cecil starts his broadcast. “I know,” he says. “I, well, I was wondering if maybe you’d been anywhere else. Like Alabama?”

Cecil frowns, little lines appearing around the corners of his third eye as he thinks. “I don’t think so…. Alibahma? I’ve never heard of that before. Are you sure it exists?”

“It’s where I grew up,” Carlos tells him. “I just… you remind me of someone.”

“Well,” Cecil grins at him. “I do have one of those faces.” And that’s that. Carlos doesn’t bring it up again. They settle into a pattern. Carlos calls Cecil for science reasons. Cecil talks about Carlos on the radio. And neither of them seem to have the willpower to move beyond this state. Cecil still looks at Carlos expectantly sometimes, and sometimes Carlos is almost certain he knew Cecil before he moved to Night Vale.

And then, Carlos almost dies.

 

Cecil narrates his jump into the city almost as it happens. Carlos has always found his ability to know what is going on all over town fascinating, and vaguely thinks he’s going to need to investigate whether it’s a property of Cecil’s third eye or something else entirely. Then he’s distracted by the tiny city, which at first appears perfectly harmless. It’s cute, sort of like the kind of ‘Christmas Village’ his sisters used to set up in the living room every winter. But then he hears the first war cry, and the tiny people start swarming. Something hits him in the head and he feels a trickle of blood flowing down the side of his face. The feather necklace around his neck flares with heat and burns. Cecil’s voice on the radio breaks and he sobs. Carlos falls to his knees and then to the floor. Cecil curses himself, stuck in his booth and unable to help. And suddenly, as Carlos feels a hundred small, sharp pricks in his skin, he’s elsewhere.

“Duck and roll,” Cecil’s voice orders, and he forces his thirteen-year-old body to comply.

“Cecil,” he whispers, lying prone on the ground, knowing that his voice should be stronger, younger, than the sound that reaches his ears. Hands wrap around him and he feels himself lifted, but in another place he is wrapped in soft warm wings. His hands find the feather hanging from his neck. It’s warm between his fingers, but no longer burning.

“He’s OK!” Cecil’s voice says on the radio. “You are safe, my Carlos,” Cecil’s voice says in his mind. Carlos holds the feather, _Cecil_ _’s_ feather, and remembers.

 

After it all, when Teddy Williams has patched him up and they’ve evacuated the bowling alley, Carlos heads to the Arby’s. He’s not sure why he picks the Arby’s, but it’s close to both his apartment and Cecil’s station. And he waits. Cecil arrives, flustered, not knowing why Carlos called him. He’s beautiful, just like Carlos imagined when he was six.

 

“What is it?” Cecil asks, eyes wide. “Wha- what danger are we in?” His hands reach out, as if needing to reassure himself that Carlos was physically there, but he hesitates and draws them back. Carlos mentally sighs, and reaches out to him, taking his hands and drawing him to sit on the car beside him.

“Nothing,” he says, and smiles at Cecil’s confused look. “After everything that’s happened… I just wanted to see you.” He squeezes Cecil’s hand, willing him to understand what he meant, even though his words still feel stilted and stuck behind his tongue.

“Oh?” Hope lights in Cecil’s eyes, all three focusing on Carlos’ face.

Carlos can’t talk while looking at Cecil, so he turns to stare at the setting sun. “I used to think it was setting at the wrong time,” he says, instead of what he wanted to say. “But, then I realized that time doesn’t work in Night Vale, and that none of the clocks are real. Sometimes things seem so strange, or malevolent, and then you find that underneath it was something else altogether. Something pure. And innocent.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Carlos sees Cecil nod.

“I know what you mean,” Cecil says.

Carlos puts his hand on Cecil’s knee, and Cecil shifts closer, resting his head on Carlos’ shoulder. The weight of him is warm and comforting, and Carlos moves his hand from Cecil’s knee to wrap an arm around his back.

“You used to tell me stories about Night Vale,” Carlos says, after the sun has set and the lights above the Arby’s begin to dance in slow circles in the air.

“Yes,” Cecil sounds surprised, but he doesn’t move his head from Carlos’ shoulder.

“And I… I named you, didn’t I?”

Cecil nods slowly. “And Night Vale,” he adds.

“Is it real? Is this really happening?” Carlos asks, unsure if he wants to know the answer.

“Of course,” Cecil laughs. “Why wouldn’t it?”

“I…” Carlos pauses. “I used to think I’d imagined you. That you were just an imaginary friend I’d had when I was little.”

“Of course you imagined me,” Cecil tells him with a laugh. “Why would that make me not real?”

“Science…” Carlos starts to say, but Cecil raises a finger to his lips and he stops.

“Are you real?” he asks Carlos.

“I… think so?” he’s not sure.

“How can you tell?”

“I…” Carlos starts to shake. What if _he_ isn’t real?

“I feel real,” Cecil tells him, smooth voice sincere and lower even than his radio tone. “You imagined me because you needed me. But I didn’t die when you didn’t need me anymore. I came here. And then you came here. And now you remember. That’s what’s real. Everything else is extra.”

Carlos thinks about it for a minute. And then he smiles. “Reality is subjective anyway.”

Cecil hums in agreement, and nestles further into Carlos’ side.


End file.
